


In sickness, health, and all that shit

by enthugger



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Husbands, M/M, Post Season 10, Sleepy Cuddles, mentions of child abuse (again canon typical), mickey milkovich is the dumbest man alive, snippets of married life, soft angst, vague mentions of canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23311768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: There are good days and there are bad days.Sometimes, the good days go like this, with a hand on his stomach working its way down to his hip and soft breaths against his neck that feel like a question, days when Mickey’s first vague waking thought is that Ian must be fucking stupid if he still thinks he needs to ask questions.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 30
Kudos: 280





	In sickness, health, and all that shit

There are good days and there are bad days. 

Sometimes, the good days go like this, with a hand on his stomach working its way down to his hip and soft breaths against his neck that feel like a question, days when Mickey’s first vague waking thought is that Ian must be fucking stupid if he still thinks he needs to ask questions. 

By now he must know that the answer is yes, it’s always been yes, even when Mickey was too doubled over with the force of his own cowardice to see it himself: _Yes. Yes. Jesus Christ, Gallagher, can’t you see this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my entire fucked up life? Yes!_

Barely opening his eyes, Mickey rolls over onto his stomach to hide a smile in the pillowcase and Ian’s hand comes to rest against his ass, warm and perfect, and Mickey pushes back against him with a need that somewhere along the way has become instinct. 

It’s something about the way he feels empty sometimes without Ian inside of him, probably in more ways than just his dick, but Mickey thinks that’s always a good place to start. 

Sometimes, the bad days go like this, not so much bad as the hint of bad or the hint of worse. They come with Ian, wide awake at 5am, tossing the blankets away and slamming doors and going for too many runs in the time before any sane member of the household has even showered. They go like Ian smiling at Mickey when he stumbles into the kitchen for a coffee he’d rather have injected directly into his veins and while he has a lifetime of Ian’s smiles to make up for not allowing himself to love, Mickey hates this one. It looks like it’s not aimed at him so much as it’s aimed through him and painted on like a mask that begs the rest of the world not to look at Ian too closely. 

Mickey looks closely. 

He sees the hint of dark circles against Ian’s pale skin and the way he looks like a fucking ghost under all those freckles, the way Ian’s hands shake slightly as he closes the fridge. Ian takes a step towards him, shakes his head and takes two steps back. 

Mickey says, “Hey.” 

And Ian says, “I was gonna make eggs. Do you want eggs?” 

And Mickey wants to say something about the fact that a very small part of him had hoped that now that he and Ian wore each other’s rings on their fingers every day (mostly every day) maybe, just maybe, Ian would never stare at him like he’s doing now ever again, like Mickey isn’t quite there, or like Ian isn’t. Like Mickey is just another someone in a world of assholes for Ian to look out at and not his goddamn husband. 

Something about it makes Mickey want to punch someone, ideally Terry Milkovich. 

Instead, Mickey says, “Missed you this morning.” 

“Missed me?” Ian sounds confused. “I’m right here.” 

Mickey takes a step closer, his eyes flick to Ian’s bottom lip and he can see the indentation of teeth already where he’s been biting it. It’s unnecessarily hot. 

“Not the part of you I missed, big guy.” 

Ian smiles, very slightly, a smile that looks more like Ian than he has since Mickey woke up and he reaches out, lays a hand on Ian’s chest. Mickey can feel the breaths he’s taking through his shirt, too fast, too uneven. 

“I’m sure you’ll survive one day of married life without my dick.” Ian turns away from him, reaches into a cupboard for something. “Eggs?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. 

“Sure, fine. Make me some fucking eggs.” 

He walks around the counter and reaches for the coffee pot, annoyed but not annoyed, until Ian is suddenly in front of him, dragging him up into a short, hard kiss. It’s full of tongue, and teeth against his lip, and hot coffee against his fingers – which, fuck, ow – but Mickey doesn’t give a shit about the coffee anymore. 

“Good morning to you too,” Ian says, softly, when he pulls away. And Mickey reads him as clearly as he thinks anyone could on these days. Ian sees him, even with his brain threatening him from every corner, beating his mind half to shit, Ian still sees him and that’s more than Mickey ever could have hoped for. 

Sometimes, the good days don’t seem like they’re going be good at all, when they start with two loud crashes and a high-pitched scream right across from their room. Mickey feels Ian start awake beside him. 

“I’m ok!” Comes Debbie’s cheerful shout a moment later. “Nothing’s broken except, oh shit. Well everything in this house is trash, I don’t think anyone cares about this anyway…” 

“Fucking shut up,” Mickey mutters, turning over to bury his face against Ian’s chest, far too quiet for Debbie to hear a wall or two over. Ian’s hand comes to rest against the nape of his neck, warm and familiar. “Shouldn’t she be at work or some shit?” Mickey asks and he feels Ian shrug beneath him. 

Ian’s hand moves up, his long fingers running along the base of Mickey’s skull, half-massage, half-exploration. 

They’re both fully awake now and from the still constant sounds of banging in the house around them, neither of them is going to get any more sleep any time soon. Mickey figures they may as well make the most of it. 

He moves a hand down to Ian’s thigh, running insistent fingers down the inside of his leg, teasing his way towards Ian’s hardening dick until Ian pushes him gently to the side and kisses him, his hands coming to rest on the bed on either side of Mickey’s head. Mickey pushes up and against him, feels Ian grind against his hip and he’s already hard himself when the door slams open. 

“Get the fuck out!” Mickey does his best to glare threateningly from where he’s all but pinned beneath six feet of warm muscular red-head and nine inches of fucking bliss. 

“Ew!” Liam groans when he sees them, but he doesn’t move, instead raps his knuckles against the doorframe in a kind of extra-fucking-annoying wake-up call. “Debbie says we’re having a party.” 

“Who has a party at 10 in the fucking morning?” 

He meets Ian’s eyes above him, so close that their noses almost touch. 

“Fucking Gallaghers.” 

Sometimes the bad days aren’t actually all that bad, but he thinks about them afterwards and Mickey’s come to learn that anything he has to think about that much is never a good thing. 

It’s the little things he thinks about, like when he’s literally the most chill he ever gets without Ian’s mouth around his dick, laid out fully on the couch in a for-once empty house, a beer in hand and something mindless on the tv in front of him. 

There’s a sound in the kitchen, someone slamming a refrigerator door that he doesn’t think twice about. 

“Brought you another beer,” Ian says, by way of greeting, setting it down on the ground beside him and Mickey’s still only half-paying attention because the next thing he knows Ian’s hand is next to his face and he reacts on instinct more than anything else when he fucking panics. 

He doesn’t take a swing at Ian, but it’s a close thing, knocking the reaching hand away from him and bringing his own up in between them, ready to hit back. 

And it’s stupid, more than stupid, because both of them have been in more fights than Mickey can remember. They’ve both had far, far worse than a single punch might threaten, hell, they’ve done far worse to each other - Mickey remembers, swallowing back something he thinks maybe a better adjusted person might be able to place as guilt. 

“Oh, shit,” is what Mickey finally says in way of an apology and Ian’s always been better at this than he is because at the same time Ian says, “Sorry,” relaxed, unworried. 

It’s an unspoken kind of rule that neither of them ever acknowledges this. It’s not something that needs acknowledgement really when you grow up with the families they grew up with and Ian’s taking the cue like he always does, leaning back against the couch beside him, taking a sip of his own beer like nothing’s happened. 

And Mickey deals with the awkward space between them the same way he’s always dealt with it, by grabbing Ian by the front of his shirt and pulling him forward into a rough kiss. He feels Ian’s hands come up to his neck, and slowly, as Mickey forces his tongue into his mouth, Ian strokes a thumb over his cheek in another silent, unnecessary apology. 

Sometimes the days aren’t really good or bad as they are so fucking South Side that Mickey wants to scream, or shoot someone, or both - usually he does both.

“Hey, Mick.” 

Ian sounds distracted when he answers the phone, and that’s never a good sign. Mickey hears vague sounds of the city behind him. 

“Yeah, hey.”

“You ok?” Ian asks. “You sound like you’ve run a fucking marathon.” 

Mickey doesn’t have time for this. 

“I need you to come get me.” 

“I don’t have a car right now, but I can meet you somewhere after work if you – “ 

“No, as in right now. I need you to get me.” 

Mickey stops moving, forcing himself into a small gap in a corner that’s slightly too small to fit into. He tries to listen for any sound of movement behind him, clamps his fingers tighter around the phone. 

“What? What’s going on?” 

“Look can you just get in a fucking car and get me, it’s a long story.” 

“Fuck, Mickey, was that a gunshot?” 

“Yes, it was a fucking gunshot!” 

It’s definitely on the other side of the building though, Mickey thinks, so he’s safe for now. 

“Look, Gallagher, it’s a long fucking story. I got separated from some of the other guys, just pull up a couple blocks away and I’ll meet you there.”

Ian sighs into the phone, loud and crackly against his ear. 

“Ok, fine. I’ll see what I can do.” 

The sound of footsteps running towards him snaps Mickey back into reality and he hangs up the phone, hastily shoving it back into his pocket as he tenses. He congratulates himself on his flawless timing as the guy runs by and Mickey flings himself out of the crevice and tackles him to the ground, pins him with his knees and has one hand over his mouth before the guy even has a chance to call out. 

He pauses for a moment, breathing, and it takes him a second to notice the vibration coming from his pocket. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, flexing the fingers over the guy’s mouth, then the ones clamped around his arm, holding him in place. “Uh, just shut up for a second, will you?” Mickey asks, finally, slowly releasing his hand from the guy’s mouth – his eyes widen very slightly but he seems scared enough to stay still. 

Mickey reaches awkwardly around to pull the phone out of his pocket. It’s Ian again. 

“Hey,” he answers. “Not a great time. Where the fuck are you?” 

“You didn’t tell me where the fuck you are!” 

“Oh shit, right.” 

Sometimes the bad days are absolute fucking shitstorms of awful that involve things like bleeding into a snowbank in the middle of Chicago winter, his head fuzzy and thankfully no bullet wounds and the pound of his head and his probably-broken ribs that sound out a consistent rhythm of _Ian, Ian, Ian._

He’s moved at some point, and he fights against the hands the seize him roughly and pull him into a car and he tries his hardest to threaten them because no one messes with Micky Milkovich – well, Gallagher – and gets away with it, even when he’s so fucked he can barely see right in front of him. 

Things go dark again for a little while.

And sometime later, a familiar voice somewhere above him but too far away to be fully real: “Jesus, Mick. What the fuck did you do - “ the voice wavers and Mickey isn’t quite sure if he’s asleep or awake or alive or dead, but no matter what he is that voice is his center and he reaches out towards the source of it. There are soft hands on his arms and gentle touches on his face and softer, closer: “I’m here. It’s ok, I’m here.” 

Sometimes the bad days are less of a day than they are a fog and if they feel that way to him, Mickey can’t begin to imagine how they feel for Ian. That’s by far the worst part. 

He knows it’s one of those days when it gets to 3pm and Ian still hasn’t moved from the half-curled ball beneath too many layers of blankets Mickey left him in that morning. 

He’s unresponsive when Mickey asks if he wants food, or for him to open the window, or even when he asks if getting his ass out would help, which he personally thinks is pretty inventive. Ian murmurs a small, “no” and slowly turns his face into his pillow. 

When Mickey kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed himself, he wonders at first if he’s made a horrible mistake because for the second time all day, Ian speaks. 

“Please go away.” 

“You ain’t getting rid of me that quickly, Gallagher,” he says and Mickey never quite learned how to be soft, but he does his best as he reaches out, tugging Ian towards him in what he hopes is a suggestion and not a demand. 

For a moment, Ian lies very still. Then, he lets out a sort of strangled gasp and wraps both hands around Mickey’s arm where it’s thrown hesitantly across his shoulder, clinging like Mickey is the only thing in the world keeping him from drowning. It’s all the invitation Mickey needs. 

He pulls Ian against him, until his chest is pressed against Ian’s back, holds onto Ian with both arms so tightly it might be uncomfortable, but Ian isn’t complaining. He presses a kiss to the back of Ian’s neck, another to the sensitive place right below his ear, another against his bare shoulder, all the places he can reach. At one point, Ian starts shaking, very slightly, in his arms. Mickey shushes him, says all sorts of bullshit he’s not sure he believes himself, like “It’s ok. It’s alright.” And then, bullshit that he absolutely does believe, like “I love you.” 

Ian’s voice is so quiet Mickey barely hears his response. “Love you too.” 

Sometimes the bad days drag on longer than Mickey has any fucking patience for and they go like this, with Ian not showing up for work, going AWOL for 12 hours, with Mickey calling Lip and nearly hyperventilating until, finally, just as the evening is starting to turn into a long, long night, Ian texts him. Two words, two punches to the gut: _I’m ok._ And then, a moment later: _Sorry._

Mickey’s never watched the sunset except maybe by accident once or twice out the window of a police car and 36 hours of no sleep, long story. And anyway, watching the sunset always seemed like the sort of pussy ass shit he’d never be caught dead doing. 

Now that he thinks about it, until Ian came along (literally) there were a lot of things Mickey assumed he’d never be caught doing period, like taking it up the ass daily from the most drop dead fucking gorgeous, caring, kind, and all-together too good for him man Mickey’s ever seen in his goddamn life. 

Anyway, he doesn’t mean to watch the sunset and he’s not really watching much of anything because most of the view across the street from the Gallagher house is just another row of shithole houses and another after that and after that. And not to mention, he’s too fucking pissed off to see it because his brain is so full of all the shit he’s going to yell at Ian the next time he sees him (if he sees him, Mickey doesn’t quite think). 

Mickey flicks ash from his cigarette onto the steps at his feet. 

He doesn’t hear the door open and he startles at the sound of footsteps directly behind him. He drops the cigarette as he fumbles and quickly stamps it out with the toe of his boot. 

“You trying to burn my house down?” Ian’s voice is quiet. 

“What the fuck?” Mickey demands. He’s on his feet with the front of Ian’s shirt fisted in one hand, shoving him against the railing of the steps which creaks dangerously beneath their combined weights. “Where the fuck were you?” 

“Just give me a second, will you?” 

Ian won’t quite meet his eyes and he’s strangely placid in the face of Mickey’s outburst of not-quite-violence and slowly, Mickey releases him, confused. 

Mickey’s anger is turning to concern faster than he knows what to do with it and after a moment of hovering, he turns away from Ian completely and sits back down on the step, lights another cigarette in what he hopes is at least a pretense of casual. 

When Ian still doesn’t move, he pats the step beside him. 

“Sit the fuck down and tell me what happened.” 

Ian does. 

He drops down beside Mickey, close enough that their thighs brush together on the small step, and Mickey leans involuntarily into the warmth of him. Ian reaches over, fumbles the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers and takes a drag himself. The smoke curls into the evening air around them before it dissipates. 

Ian’s hand comes up to rub absently at the back of Mickey’s neck, his thumb digging into tense muscle and Mickey still stares pointedly ahead. And this almost-romantic bullshit where the two of them share a cigarette and watch the sunset on the backsteps of their house is all well and good, but Mickey’s still on the brink of being fucking terrified and it’s still not enough. 

He opens his mouth to say something – knowing himself, most likely to yell again – but Ian cuts him off before he can. 

“I’ll explain, I promise. Just - ” Ian tils his head until it rests against Mickey’s, his breaths warm against Mickey’s ear. “Let’s stay here for a minute.” 

There are good days and there are bad days. Sometimes, the good days go like this.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm late to the gallavich party, but boy am i here now. ALSO just wanna say the 9 inches comment is a reference to that one episode where mickey says his type is "red head batshit crazy and packing 9 inches" lol hmu on tumblr @williamvapespeare if you want to yell with me about these excellent boys!


End file.
